


Elle

by traveller



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/traveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a novel in 500 words</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elle

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Yeats for teaching me the verb _jouir_.
> 
> for K.

Her name is Elle. She speaks French with a Russian accent, she smokes Sobranies and cheats at cards. Her clothes are always a little too big. Her breasts are heavy, pale and perfect.

They meet, when they meet, always at the same bistro in Prague. They drink red wine and coke, eat frites and argue about politics until the moon sinks into the Vltava. Arthur takes her arm, takes her back to her flat, where the refrigerator rattles as he fucks her bent over the sink. Her nails, bitten short and flaking red varnish, scrabble at the speckled green worktop.

 _More_ , she says in English, her cunt pulling tight and wet around Arthur's cock, her voice rough with smoke and the hour. She says his name in that so-familiar way; he wraps his fist in her dark hair and yanks as he comes.

She slaps his face when she turns around, sends him staggering back against the window. An amber glass bottle falls from the sill, but it doesn't break. Arthur grins, grabs her sharp elbow and brings her in, wrestles her down to the tacky blue lino. _Je n'ai joui pas_ , she hisses, kicking him in the ribs.

 _Je sais,_ he answers, pushing her skirt up over her hips. He licks the taste of himself out of her pussy, til there's nothing left but her own sweet flavor, til he can't hear the refrigerator or the early morning traffic over the sound of her moaning breath. Her thighs are soft against his cheeks, and tremble when she comes, and comes again.

Arthur's hard once more by then; she rides him slow and easy in her bed, the sheets silky and yellow with age. He thumbs her thick nipples, her clit, and she braces one hand on his shoulder, holding tighter and tighter.

Outside below an engine screams to life, its fan belt protesting the effort. A woman shouts, a man answers, a dog barks. The engine gets louder, then fades away into the distance.

Elle collapses on Arthur's shoulder, breath shuddering against his skin. He rubs her back, unwilling to separate yet; the night is almost over. _Eames,_ Arthur whispers, kissing her jaw, her ear.

They come up with their fingers threaded together, Arthur slouched on the Chesterfield and Eames stretched on the chaise. He squeezes Arthur's hand, then drops it.

"Ruined the illusion a bit, there at the end." His eyes are more serious than his tone, and he doesn't move except to tip his gaze at Arthur.

"She was amazing," Arthur says honestly. "Your detail is always perfect." He pulls his line, gets up and does Eames' as well. Eames looks up at him, assessing.

"So why...?" Eames prompts, and Arthur settles over him on the chaise, reversing their positions from the dream. He starts to unbutton Eames' shirt, but Eames catches his hands, shakes his head. Arthur sighs.

"It's still you," he answers. He pulls his hands free, and lays them on Eames' cheeks. "It's you."


End file.
